We've been friends since the first day of kindergarten.

Dear Uncle Gary,

What do you say to someone who is dying at 33?

Last November, my friend was diagnosed with an aggressive breast cancer. Now, less than a year later, she’s in palliative care. The doctors say she has “weeks.” Weeks. I’ve been crying for days, trying to make sense of something that refuses to make sense. She’s young. She’s vibrant. She’s supposed to be here. We've been friends since the first day of kindergarten.

I want to visit her in the hospital, but I’m terrified. What do I say to someone who knows they’re dying? How do I speak without crumbling? How do I show up without making it worse?

I want to bring her comfort, not sorrow. I want to talk like we used to, about stupid things, funny things, anything but death. But I’m scared I’ll say the wrong thing. Or worse, say nothing at all.

And then there’s the moment I dread most: leaving. How do you walk out of a room when you don’t know if you’ll ever walk back in? “See you later” feels like a lie. “Goodbye” feels like a betrayal. What do you say when you don’t know if there will be a next time?

I know this is heavy. I know there’s no perfect script. But I need help. I need a compass. I need to know how to show up for someone I love who is slipping away.

Signed, Unbelievably Sad

Dear Unbelievably Sad,

Let me start by saying this: your letter is brave. It’s raw, it’s honest, and it carries the weight of love. And love, especially the kind that shows up in the hardest moments, is never stupid, never wrong, and never wasted.

Now, I won’t pretend there’s a perfect answer to your question. There isn’t. But I can tell you this: when you walk into that hospital room, you don’t need a script. You need your presence. You need your heart. You need the friendship that’s already carried you both this far.

Your friend isn’t looking for polished words. She’s looking for you. The you who laughed with her, cried with her, shared late-night texts and inside jokes. The you who remembers her favorite snack, her least favorite rom-com, and the way she rolls her eyes when she’s pretending not to cry. That’s the person she wants beside her now.

So talk about the stupid things. The funny things. The things that remind her she’s still here, still herself, still loved. Let her lead the way. If she wants to talk about death, follow her there. If she wants to talk about life, stay in that lane. You don’t have to fix anything. You just have to be real.

And when it’s time to leave, don’t worry about the perfect exit line. You can say, “I love you.” You can say, “I’ll be thinking about you.” You can say, “I’ll be back if you want me to be.” Or you can just squeeze her hand and let silence do the talking. What matters is that she knows you showed up. That you didn’t run away. That you honored her life by being part of it, even now.

This is one of the hardest things a person can do. But you’re already doing it. You’re asking the right questions. You’re feeling the right feelings. And you’re showing up with your whole heart.

That’s what courage looks like.

With deep respect, Uncle Gary